


may your dreams come to reality

by shadowdance



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: Cyril has been writing a lot lately. Lysithea notices.
Relationships: Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 20
Kudos: 73





	may your dreams come to reality

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from scotland by the lumineers.

_Dear Lysithea,_

_Let me start again._

+

Cyril has been writing a lot lately.

He’s been hunched over a sheet of paper, carefully tracing his quill on the parchment. His movements are slow, gentle. The tips of his fingers are always stained with ink, but he folds them in his lap before anyone can ask. Sometimes Lysithea catches him reading the sheet of paper, chewing his lip in concentration. He’s so concentrated that he doesn’t hear Lysithea call his name, doesn’t look up until she taps his shoulder.

“You’ve been very focused lately,” she teases, knocking her shoulder against his. “What’s got your attention?”

Cyril blinks at her. Still, Lysithea does not miss the way he carefully folds up the paper, stashing it neatly in his pockets. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” Lysithea repeats, like a lie she’s testing out. Cyril nods.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

A prickle goes up Lysithea’s spine. Cyril has never lied to her, lest of all about _writing._ That has always been their little thing, him writing, her reading. He drops off letters to her almost everyday. To hide a letter from her is—strange, to say the least. She can’t help but wonder what it is.

“Okay,” she says, her tone slightly edged with suspicion. “I believe you.”

Cyril does not take the bait. He just beams at her, warm enough to make her heart churn. He’s grown up during the war. They both have.

“Good,” he says, and changes the topic so effortlessly that Lysithea doesn’t know how to get back to the beginning.

+

_The war is long. But Claude has a plan. He says the plan will help his dream. He says everyone has a dream._

_What is your dream, Lysithea?_

+

The war doesn’t end with Edelgard’s death, as they had all thought. It seems foolish in retrospect, Lysithea thinks, and almost arrogant. That slaying the emperor meant the world would right itself again. How foolish they all were.

Because Edelgard thrusts another war in their hands, in the form of a letter. Claude’s eyes grow more tired as he reads the letter, and when he finishes, he folds it up and stashes it neatly in his pockets. Without a word, he enters the war council room. They all know what that means.

“And I really thought I could go home after this,” Hilda sighs. They’re all gathered in the dining hall, waiting for Claude to emerge with a brilliant plan. Lysithea taps her foot on the ground, feeling like an impatient child. Restlessness stirs in her stomach; she needs to _do_ something. Anything.

“What would you do at home?” Ignatz asks. Hilda shrugs, stretching her arms back.

“I don’t know. I just want to be done with this god-awful war.”

It’s a very Hilda answer, but Lysithea’s stomach roils uncomfortably. Truthfully, she also doesn’t know what she’ll do when the war is over. It’s awful, but the war gives her a sense of duty, a kind of belonging. She doesn’t spend her days waiting to die; she fights for a purpose, for a better world. Once it’s all over, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. There are five years left on the clock—but what can she accomplish in five years?

Cyril nudges her. “What are you gonna do?”

“Huh?” Lysithea startles, accidentally knocking her foot against a table leg. Luckily, nobody is really paying attention to her; they’re all lost in their own conversations, talking about aspirations and dreams and futures. Only Cyril is paying attention to her, and that’s the only thing that matters.

“What are you gonna do?” Cyril repeats. His eyes gleam with curiosity, with a gentle kindness. “Once the war is over, I mean.”

Lysithea glances at the rest of her classmates. Travel the world, they say. Make a name for myself, they say. Chase after that dream I’ve always longed for, they say. At least they can _do_ that.

 _Prepare to die_ is a very horrible answer in comparison.

“I don’t know,” she settles on. It sounds a little too jagged from her mouth, a little sharper than intended. But Cyril doesn’t seem bothered. He just nods, resting an elbow lightly on the table.

“Me neither,” he says. “I don’t really have a plan. Although…” he scratches his chin. “I guess I’d stick around here.”

Lysithea stares at the hardwood. Come back with me, she wants to say, but she can’t bring herself to do so. It would be cruel, anyway. Only five years. That’s not enough time.

“We’ll figure it out,” is what she says instead. Cyril nods solemnly.

“Yeah. I suppose we will.”

His fingers fold like he’s holding a quill.

+

_I do not know if I have a dream. I do not know if my dream would be like Claude’s. But I like writing with you. I like being with you. I think that is my dream. To be with you always._

+

While Claude is busy with war strategies, he does spend a little of his time with Cyril. Probably _for_ war preparations, Lysithea thinks; Cyril has the best eyes in the army, after all. He can see farther than any of them. Claude could utilize that extensively.

So when she glimpses them in the library together, she thinks it’s for the war. What else could grab Claude’s attention? Neither of them look up when she enters, although Lysithea supposes they haven’t heard her. She’s about to slip towards the shelves when Claude says, suddenly, “You spelled her name wrong.”

Lysithea freezes.

“Oh.” Cyril’s voice drifts out. “Damn, I messed it up…”

“You’ve been working really hard,” Claude says. He claps his hand on Cyril’s shoulder, almost in a brotherly fashion. “I think you’re just tired. You got it right all the other times, look…”

Lysithea’s heart feels tight in her chest. She should leave, she knows. Whatever they’re talking about seems private, and it would be wrong to intrude. She has no desire to eavesdrop, either. Yet her legs feel rooted to the ground, and her heartbeat is thrumming loud enough to drown everything out. How they haven’t noticed her yet, she doesn’t understand.

Claude looks up, his gaze sweeping over the library. When he notices Lysithea, he visibly starts, his eyes wide; rare for him, to be caught off-guard. In a moment, though, his features smoothen out in a smile, the shock washing away from his face.

“Hey, Lysithea,” he says cheerfully, and Cyril stiffens next to him. “When’d you get here?”

Lysithea swallows. Out of the corner of her eye, Cyril folds up a sheet of paper and stows it safely in his pocket. His expression seems calm, but tension rounds out his shoulders, and he won’t look at her. “Just now.”

“Ah,” Claude says, nodding sagely. “Well, Cyril and I have been here practically all day. In fact, I think I’m going to call it a night. Need some beauty rest and all. Take care, guys.”

With that, he claps Cyril on the shoulder once more and leaves, a quiet smirk twitching on his lips. Damn Claude. He always acts like he knows something when he doesn’t; it’s some kind of mind ploy. Either way, it always gets to Lysithea, because a prickle of paranoia slides down her spine. What could Claude know that she doesn’t?

“Everything alright?” she asks, sliding in the seat across from Cyril. He meets her gaze squarely, but he seems restless. His fingers keep drumming on the table, a beat that matches her heart.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I’m fine.”

Lysithea bites her lip. “What were you and Claude talking about?”

Cyril looks down. The candlelight flickers low in the library, casting an orange glow against his cheeks. “Oh, it’s nothing. He’s just helping me with some things. It’s not about the war.”

The echo of Claude’s words rings in Lysithea’s head. _You spelled her name wrong._ Who are they talking about? Rhea? Herself? The question is on the tip of her tongue, but Lysithea can’t bring herself to say it. It seems too personal to breach, and she doesn’t want to probe. Cyril has a life, a dream. She won’t be around long enough to see most of it. Thus, it’s none of her business.

So she leans back and says, “I see.” The curl of her words are a little sharper than intended, but Cyril doesn’t seem to notice. He just tilts his head back, eyes warm in the candle glow. Lysithea’s cheeks dust pink, and she drops her head down.

“Don’t worry,” Cyril assures her, leaning forward. Unexpectedly, his hand reaches for hers, and Lysithea startles at the touch. He doesn’t notice, just furrows his brow as he intertwines their fingers together. His touch is warm.

A long time ago, Cyril had said she’d had princess hands. Lysithea had scoffed then, but with the weight of Cyril’s hand against hers, she understands now. She can feel all of his callouses and scars, pressed against her skin. Even with the war’s scars burrowed deep in her skin, it’s nothing compared to Cyril’s. A burst of shame floods through her veins, her heart.

“Don’t worry,” Cyril says again. He squeezes her hand, the gesture so kind that Lysithea blinks at him in surprise. “You’re still my favorite, you know that?”

 _You’re still my favorite._ Lysithea hadn’t even known that in the first place. Warmth spreads under her skin, blooming on her cheeks, in the cracks of her heart. She pretends it’s the candle light.

“Well, I like to spend the most time with you,” she says, because she should say something to _that._ The words are shakier than intended, giving an air of vulnerability. In a way, she supposes it is. This is a confession in its own right.

When Cyril grins at her, soft and shy at the edges, her heart threatens to spill open with warmth.

+

_That is why I need to get this right. I have been reading more. And writing. And practicing. And I want to show you right away. But I need to wait. This is very important for both of us. I know you will read it soon. I cannot wait to see the look on your face._

+

Again and again, Cyril shuts himself in the library. It’s not a secret or anything, just a fact that hardens to a truth: if you need Cyril, he’s probably in the library. Working hard, trying to stop the war. He always pours his strength and efforts into the task at hand, and he won’t stop unless fatigue overcomes him. It’s a mannerism that Lysithea recognizes quite well.

She, too, is focused on the war. But while everyone else approaches it calmly, she throws herself in with a fervor that nobody can match. It’s not because she’s more dedicated or anything; it’s _personal._ These are the people who snatched years away from her. Who tortured her for their own experiments. Who traded her life for a Crest. They taunt her in the edges of her memory, the words all translating to this: _you will die, you are going to die, you are dying and you can’t do anything about it._

Maybe Lysithea can’t take her lost years back. But she can at least drag her killers down with her.

She enters the library looking for a book on Shambhala, on Nemesis, on anything that could help her. Given the late hour, she half-expects the library to be empty, but one lone candle bobs on a table. Unsurprisingly, it’s Cyril. His head is pillowed over his arms, his expression more peaceful than Lysithea has ever seen it. In the low light, she could almost mistake him for the boy he was five years ago. She could almost pretend it _was_ five years ago, when her biggest worry was her upcoming black magic exam, when she helped Cyril carry wood and he laughed at her. When she still had a few more years tucked under her bones.

But there’s no use in pretending. Besides, the longer Lysithea gazes at Cyril, the more she sees incremental difference. Like the smoothened curve of his jaw. The scar from a battle two days ago, still in the process of healing. The hair that falls over his eyes now. The Cyril five years ago had none of this. Time really has changed them both, in the smallest of ways.

Lysithea does not sit down. Her eyes, however, catch on a sheet of paper, inches from his hand. One quick glance and she can tell it’s not for the war. One quick glance and she sees her name, written over and over, like a prayer: _Lysithea, Lysithea, Lysithea, Lysithea, Lysithea._

Don’t look at it, she tells herself. This is Cyril’s personal writings, and to read it would be intruding. Cyril never hides anything from her, but there are things he hasn’t told her. Well, Lysithea is the same. She hasn’t told him that she counts down clocks almost obsessively. She can’t tell him that. So she lets Cyril have his little writings, with her name worn down in the paper.

But Lysithea is a quick observer. And with one short glance, she can gather this much: Cyril has been writing her name with gentle care. His handwriting has always been a little sloppy at the edges, although it has smoothened out over time. But the way Cyril wrote her name is—different. Carefully, slowly, clearly. He’s trying to perfect it, Lysithea realizes. He’s pouring all of his effort into this, a clear etching of her name. _Lysithea._

She glances at Cyril. He keeps sleeping. A quill has slipped sideways out of his hands, staining the table with ink.

Lysithea picks it up, lays it gently over Cyril’s paper, and leaves before he can wake.

+

_I like writing your name. It is fun. I like writing to you. But you know that already._

_I like how I feel when I am with you. You have told me I make you feel good. I think we share the same feeling. I like that._

+

Claude invites Lysithea to have tea with him, which naturally sets off interior alarms in Lysithea’s head. Claude never has time for tea nowadays, and they’ve done this before. Lysithea tries to picture what they could talk about, but it’s too hard to predict Claude. She steels herself in the end.

“So,” Claude says, leaning back in his chair. His body language is light, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that makes Lysithea shift in her seat. “War’s almost over.”

“I suppose.” Lysithea stares down at her plate. Claude brought snacks, but she doesn’t want to reach over and snatch a cookie. That seems like giving in. As if reading her mind, though, Claude grabs a cookie himself, and plops a cookie on her plate. Damn Claude.

“What do you want to do when it’s over?”

Lysithea winces. “You’re really asking me this?”

Claude raises an eyebrow. His fingers linger over the teacup, but he doesn’t pick it up. “Lysithea. I’ve talked to Professor Hanneman, and he said he’s working on a cure. I’ve been doing research myself.”

An ignition of hope flutters in Lysithea’s ribcage, before she squashes it out with logic. It could take years for them to find a cure. Centuries, even. And she does not have that time.

“You don’t even know when you’ll find a cure,” she snaps. Harshness coils around her syllables, but her tone is a little too unsteady. She hates it. “Don’t go raising my hopes. I know it’s fruitless.”

Claude doesn’t say anything to that, just lifts his teacup to his lips. His expression is, as always, unreadable. A stab of anger pierces Lysithea’s heart, but there’s something colder layered underneath. Something like fear, like sadness. It isn’t directed at Claude, she knows. More of what his words bring up—a future that could never happen. A future that is as real as a wisp of smoke. Lysithea never chases after it.

Claude’s next words are carefully constructed, like he’s testing out the sound. “Do you want to be alone?”

Lysithea chokes. “What.”

Claude shrugs. He sets his teacup down, leaning forward. “You’ve always been a little sharp-tongued,” he tells her. “Back when we started the Academy, you had little patience for a lot of us. I don’t think you wanted to be alone, though. You did revel in hanging out with…certain people.” His eyes glint knowingly.

It has to be the heat that makes Lysithea flush. “Like who?”

“People,” Claude says simply. “But that’s not my main point. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t shove everyone away. But you speak of your future like you’re the only one there. So, Lysithea, do you want to be alone?”

This is exactly why Lysithea didn’t want to have tea with Claude. She swallows hard, avoiding his gaze. The tea hasn’t stopped steaming in her cup. He’d gotten her favorite, but it feels too hot to drink it. Heat is flushing down her spine.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” Claude says. His eyes are a little hard. Briefly, Lysithea wonders what he’s noticed between her and Cyril, what he’s discerned. There’s no way Claude would bring _this_ topic up on his own volition.

 _The truth._ But Lysithea doesn’t lie much to begin with. She has lied about her fear of ghosts, childish things like that, but never about important things. Especially the future. Lysithea has always been clear-cut about that.

“I’m not alone,” she says, meeting Claude’s gaze squarely. As usual, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. “I won’t be alone.”

Claude’s expression gives nothing away. Still, he sighs loudly, as if that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. It’s infuriating, almost. What does he even want? Nothing about her should concern him immensely right now; he has a war on his hands. Death will wait five years for Lysithea. The war has a deeper shadow.

“Just don’t push everyone away,” Claude finally says. He tilts his head to the side, almost appraising her like a child. It’s infuriating. “Okay?”

Something cold fists over Lysithea’s heart. She hasn’t been pushing anyone away, she wants to say. There’s a difference between shutting people out and not imagining yourself in their futures. Lysithea doesn’t want to build up hopeful dreams and thought-out plans, only to fade away before they can happen. Grief will linger in her place, and she doesn’t want to add a layer of disappointment. It’s not pushing people away. It’s just being horribly realistic.

But how can she even tell Claude that? She can’t even tell _Cyril._ So Lysithea just nods and says, earnestly, “I won’t.”

Claude nods slowly. “Good,” he says. “There are people who care about you, Lysithea. Just remember that.”

Lysithea stares at her tea long and hard, and tries not to think about the gentle way Cyril wrote her name.

+

_You told me once you might not be here. I remember. Your face was very sad. You changed the subject right after, but I remember that. You looked sad. And I want to make you happy. Very happy. I want to make you smile for the rest of our lives. I hope I make you happy. I hope that you are happy with me._

+

The war ends with the fall of a king, not an emperor. Nemesis may not be a king in any true right, but Lysithea knows him as the Liberation King. The Fell King. He’s an ancient legend, standing before them on the battlefield. Waiting to attack.

But he’s no match for Claude and Byleth. All of Claude’s strategies come to fruition, and the whole army watches with bated breath as he shoots one crucial arrow. Lysithea knows they’ve won, the moment that arrow pierces Nemesis’ flesh. She knows it before Byleth slices Nemesis’ chest open. She knows it’s all over.

What should hit her is elation. Everyone else bursts into cheers, and she should as well. A big part of her heart is relieved, too—no more fighting like her life is on the line. No more worrying about the day to come. The days that will follow will be peaceful and empty, bright without war’s shadow. It’s a good thing. Lysithea is happy.

But underneath all that is an ever-looming thought, one that’s haunted her since the start of the war. It scares her, to even think about it. _What do I do now?_

A glimpse of green suddenly catches her eye. Cyril, standing quiet during the war celebrations. Cyril, smiling so brightly that Lysithea’s heart lurches. Cyril, looking relieved and tired all at once. Cyril, Cyril, Cyril. He’s always been the one she notices.

Lysithea runs to him.

“Cyril!” she calls, and he barely has time to turn around before she flings herself into his arms. She doesn’t mean to do this; her feet move of her own accord, but it’s okay. Cyril catches her. He’s a little unsteady, and he almost falls over before he rights himself, arms secure around her waist. He’s taller than Lysithea realized.

“Hey,” he says, looking down at her. His eyes crinkle with warmth. “We did it.”

Lysithea swallows, hands curling on Cyril’s chest. _We won,_ she means to say, but what spills out is, “What now?”

It’s not a strange thing to say. Far from it. But Cyril knows Lysithea, and he must hear the slightest hitch in her tone, the slight flicker of panic in her eyes. _What now? What do we do now?_ Cyril knows what she means. Cyril won’t lie to her.

“I don’t know,” he tells her. His words are kind, honest. He has never sounded more confident.

If it were anyone else, a piece of Lysithea might’ve crumbled. The panic would’ve swept in full force, and she might’ve just contemplated her own future, right then and there. But it’s Cyril, and he just pulls her in his arms again, one hand sliding down her back, the other tangling in her hair. His grip is warm, steady. Something to fall into.

Lysithea presses her face into his chest. His heartbeat is quick, but it drowns out everything else. That’s what she needs right now, to listen to his heart. She closes her eyes.

+

_When I give you this, the war is over. I have an idea of what I want to do. And I would love it more if you were with me._

_So I want to ask you a question. We can take our time. But you said you might not be here. So I need to ask now._

+

The celebration lasts for several days, almost carrying into the following week. Claude has always known how to throw a feast, and it’s well-deserved. It has been a long five years, after all.

But the celebration has to end eventually, and everyone has to return back to their lives. Claude ruffles her hair before he goes, promises that he’ll be back before taking off into the skies. Everyone else drifts back to their respective homes. Lysithea lingers in the monastery a little longer, sorting through books and belongings. She misses her parents, she does. But a part of her isn’t ready to face the long days at home. The days where she has nothing to distract her, beyond helping her parents and settling her affairs before she’s gone. Who knows when death will creep on her now? Without the war, she feels death’s hand inch closer and closer, brushing against the nape of her neck. It could be a couple weeks. It could be five years. She’ll never know.

The night before she’s supposed to go back home, she stands on the bridge connected to the cathedral. She could go in, she knows, but she has had no urge to do so. It’s been said the cathedral is haunted, and at night, the voices of the dead echo like prayers. Lysithea doesn’t know how true that is, but she doesn’t want to risk it. Instead, she tilts her head up and studies the stars. Claude left on a night like this. She wonders where he is now.

“Hey, Lysithea?”

Lysithea looks up. Cyril is standing before her, shifting nervously on his feet. His quiver is gone, which is a little odd; she’s gotten used to seeing him with it. But he has no need for his weapons now, not in this peaceful world. Lysithea wraps her arms around herself.

“Hi, Cyril.”

Cyril nods, takes a step closer. His arm accidentally brushes against hers, and the cold night air seems to drop away. Lysithea swallows, heat rushing to her cheeks.

“You’re going home tomorrow, aren’t you?” Cyril asks. Lysithea scuffs her foot on the ground.

“Yeah.” She pauses, trying to think of something to say. “But you’ll write to me, right? I’ll miss you.”

To her surprise, Cyril laughs. It’s gentle in the night, quieter than usual, but it never fails to make her heart flip. Only Cyril can do this to her. Only Cyril has the best laugh in the world.

“Of course,” he assures her. “But I wanted to talk to you about something. Before you go, I mean.”

Lysithea raises an eyebrow. She isn’t a fool; she can see the tension tightened in Cyril’s shoulders, the slight tremble of his hands. Something is making Cyril nervous. Something about her. A prickle of worry slides down her spine, but she pushes it away.

“Okay. What is it?”

Cyril takes a deep breath. “What do you want to do now?”

A lump hardens in Lysithea’s throat. There are a million things she _wants_ to do: she wants to grow up. She wants to study magic, for all her life. She wants to bake the best cake in the world one day. She wants to run through the grass and breathe, knowing that she has all the time in the world. She wants Cyril to be there, through it all, laughing and teasing and holding her hand. She wants to do so, so much. And there isn’t enough time to do it all.

“I don’t know,” she answers, the echo of what he told her on the battlefield. What she really means is, _I don’t know, but I want you to be here with me, no matter what._

Cyril is quiet. He looks down, and Lysithea wonders if she gave him the wrong answer. If he was looking for something else. But she has never lied to him, and she certainly never will. If he wanted a happier answer, he should’ve asked something else. Like, _do you love me._

“I think I want to be a student here,” he suddenly confesses, the words shaky and honest. Lysithea blinks, shifting closer. This is a truth he’s giving her. “I don’t know when I’ll have the chance, but…one day. Maybe I can do something great after. Or before. I don’t know.” He laughs, shyness curling around the sound. “But I think I have an idea of what I want.”

Lysithea’s eyes sting. If anyone can do something great, it would be Cyril. She can easily picture it: Cyril, his wise hands changing the world for the better. It’s so vivid that she almost mistakes it as a memory, and that’s what makes her almost cry. She might not be around to see it.

“You will do something great,” she says, staring at her feet. “I know you will.”

Cyril shifts on his feet. Unexpectedly, he reaches out for her, his hands closing around hers. He holds her gently, firmly. Steadily. Maybe it’s the only way he knows how. It makes Lysithea feel safe, in any case.

“I want to do something great,” Cyril tells her. “I want to come back here. And…if it’s possible, I’d like you to be there with me.”

Lysithea blinks. “Cyril—”

Cyril withdraws one hand, pulling something out of his pocket. A letter, Lysithea realizes, and her mouth goes dry. Her name is written precariously, gently. Like he’s taken great care in writing it out.

“I wrote you this,” Cyril says. He presses it in her hand. “It says…a lot more. But I do want to ask you this, right now.”

Lysithea looks down at the letter. The parchment is warm from Cyril’s hand. Her own heart feels cold. Somehow, she thinks she knows what’s coming. She’s not surprised by it.

“Lysithea,” Cyril says. It’s soft and gentle, like the way he writes. “Listen.”

And then he says it.

+

_Lysithea, Lysithea, Lysithea—_

“Will you marry me?”

**Author's Note:**

> What happens next is up to you!


End file.
